


Like Leaves On Fall Trees

by Anonyan



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: 4 Million Years Long Wars, Body Horror, Character Death, Critique On Society, Discrimination, Drabble Collection, End of Civilization, Gen, Nobody Makes It, Personal Paths, Psycological Trauma, Slice of Life, Suicide, Survival Horror, Twisting of Ideologies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:26:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1404805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonyan/pseuds/Anonyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of drabbles, set before and during the War, peeking in the lives and sparks of the many who were left on the ground.</p>
<p>Chronological tips from comic quotes.</p>
<p>Rating and tags will be adjusted as updates go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Leaves On Fall Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Spin Out and Checkflag really should have talked more about their little mission...

### Losers

> _Cybertron_  
>  _Glittering like an amethyst in the empty, unforgiving void!_  
>  _There are no promises in the void of space, save one!_  
>  _On Race Night all optics will be trained here!_  
>  _From those brave 'bots working tirelessly in our mining colonies..._  
>  _To the bright sparks conducting experiments in our science satellites..._  
>  _All the life in the universe is focused here, on this moment in time!_  
>  _It promises to be an event that will live on forever!_  
> 

  


-Checkflag?-

It had been barely a whisper, but it seemed to echo in the tight place, making yellow optics online with a sparkle of static. Startled, the racecar palmed the ceiling of metal few inches above his nose, his rebooting system trying to make sense of the space and of his own position. 

-Cheeeck...- the voice drawled lazily this time, no more bothering to keep the volume in check.

Twisting his head in a way that made his neck cables protest the still drowsy racer met the upside-down face of his friend. Well, upside down from his perspective, at least. His sensors indicated that actually he was the one lying on his back, position that had probably lulled him into recharge. Powerful vents cycled, but all he got for the effort was a flux of stale air and more dust in his conduits. 

-What is it?- somehow, Checkflag doubted it was anything important, else the other speedster wouldn't have been all relaxed like that, in a situation like this.

With his opaque paint job the other mech was almost invisible in the dark, save for the amused glow of his optics; still, he could easily make out the gesture, the chin-nod to the grid.

-Lookit there-

He tried. There wasn't room to turn over, and his neck refused to twist more, so he ended up simply tossing his head back and squinting his optics to scan between the blades of metal. More dust, a crushed jug, gummy stuff stuck to the underside a seat, and a greasy brass plaque with the letter of the blecher's and the number of the raw were all he could pick up. The exact same things that had been there before he slipped into recharge, only with much less light to make out the details. How much time had passed? Why were the comm lines still silent?

He'd been about to ask, when suddenly what had attracted the other mech's attention became clear. In the dark, he could see it too: the faint glow of energon leaking from a straw. Confirming Checkflag's suspicions, the other racecar tried to pry his servo between the bars of the grid, fingers wriggling, trying to reach the tiny box.

-Do you think there's still juice in it?-

The racer gave an incredulous, indignant huff, vents rising a puff of dirt.

-...It's trash, Spin!-

The mech in question was perfectly unphazed by both the statement and the tone, stretching his wrist joint with a grunt.

-What are you doing? Don't touch it...-

-Aw, come on. We've been hidin' under here for eeeeeeeever. I'm gettin' that rattle in my tank...ya know what I mean?-

Checkflag felt his optics flick on and off in exasperation. 

-Spin Out, if you pick that thing up, I...-

A little satisfied sound chirped through the other bot's frame, coupled with the rustle of something dragged in. 

-Alright, you picked it up. At least don't ....-

Too late: there was a click as the other's faceplate slipped open, and then the unmistakable, loud slurp of its intake.

Ugh. Ew.

Dimming his optics, he watched the other mech frown back at him and keep sipping, stubbornly, his servos squeezing and denting the thin foil of the already battered box. No shame, no sense of clean or dirty. 

Just hunger. 

It was a sight that upset more than just his fuel tanks. 

Checkflag hadn't said anything more, but if keeping his voicebox in check was easy, to hide the disgust from his features was another thing: cons to have a mouth and all that fancy stuff. For all Spin Out was concerned, that glossy-paint idiot was lucky he didn't turn his lights off for giving him those looks. His servos twitched the straw, ripping it from his intake and pointing it at the other racer, half a warning half an accuse. 

-It was right there. An' it was almost full. Who throws away half-full fizzy 'gon juice boxes?-

-Spin...-

-Listen, ye're my friend, but keep yer rustwash t' yerself, 'cause you don't know...'cause you don't know.-

And with that the dark racecar made a little ball of the battered juice-box and tossed it moodily back under the seats, watching it roll and bounce, rejoining the other garbage. 

Checkflag's mouth twitched in a sneer. He didn't know? He didn't know how the system worked, where it left you if you couldn't throw enough shanix at it? 

All it took was an accident at the wrong moment, a couple of bad seasons, and you couldn't afford the newest trinkets anymore, chances to win anything plummeting to zero. If you were already someone, already racing in the major series? Maybe a sponsor could put its gamble on you, play the card of the unexpected return. But if you were still trying to climb your way up? If you didn't have any lower series to fall back to, to try and win again? Well, then you were fragged. Somebody's got to lose, after all. 

Just that winning, losing? It was all a matter of upgrades, and how much a good a racer you truly were was worth scrap. Spin Out was a damn fine racer, better than half the clowns under the spotlights nowadays, and here he was scraping garbage from under the seats the same mechs who'd once acclaimed him rested their unsuspecting afts on to cheer on the next delusional 'bot who thought he could be the new Blurr. 

-Things are goin' to change, Spin...-

The other's voicebox shrugged, the resulting sound an undecipherable rattle. 

-Ya know, this is supposed t'be undercover sneaky stuff, we shouldn't be makin' conversation-

-No, you're right. You're right...-

No need to talk about it. Things had already been said, and they were both here now, they were both here, and they knew why, and there was nothing else to add to that. In the dark, his fingers trailed over the heated plates of his chest, rapping lightly over the still alien, newly installed compartment.

-...we shouldn't-.

 

********

 

Yeah they really shouldn't. Because the things he had to say? Spin Out doubted Check wanted to hear them. Just like he didn't wanna hear the other mech repeating that trite propaganda.

'Things are going to change...'

Spin Out wasn't here to change things. He was here for some good old vendetta.  
But the other mech? Oh, he had to really believe it, didn't he?

Checkflag, the bleeding spark. Gritting his dentae and getting his engines all revved up in rightful indignation. 

Such an idiot. 

As if they gave a scrap about races. The only reason they recruited racers was that they wanted winners.

But they weren't winners. Not him. Not Check. 

Primus, especially not Check. 

He'd seen him race. They'd been tire to tire enough times, Spin Out had his friend all figured out. He'd never told him, never had the chance, but he knew what was his problem: a fast mech, no doubt about that. Good balance. Quick reflexes. But he wasn't into it, not really. Didn't believe in the hype. He could grab first place, but it wouldn't last: he'd start getting nervous, watching his back, wondering when the others were going to catch up. 

Because deep down, down down to his t-cog, he didn't believe it. Didn't believe he got what it took to be there, to be first. 

That wasn't the kind of attitude that brought you anywhere. Especially not among their new 'friends'. 

Poor, poor Checkflag. Nothing was going to change. 

Not for you. 

An expendable cog in a system he'd been, an expendable cog in a system he was, an expendable cog in a system he would be, if he even survived this night. And the fact that he couldn't even see it was the biggest deception of all. 

And by not saying anything wasn't he earning their badge, too?

-I got the comm. We're clear. Let's go.-

-At good last. I was overheating in this hole- 

 

*************

 

The Ibex Arena. 

They'd been laying in its guts for joors, but it wasn't until they got to walk over the bleachers rather than hiding under them that it finally clicked in.

Where they were.

What they were doing. 

It said something about the aura of the place if two speedsters like them, with thousands of races under their wheels still gaped at that track like they'd never seen one in their life. But it wasn't that, it wasn't surprise, it wasn't awe. It was this...feeling, like of belonging, like of things falling into place. 

That was it, that was the track every sport car was born to feel under its hoop. 

'Undercover sneaky stuff' slipped completely from Checkflag's brain module and out his audials. 

Fresh air felt great after so long, the oversized vents over his shoulders cycling wildly, the rapid cooling of his frame making his forehead hurt.

-There, there! That's the Sonic Screwdriver Bend...-

The checkered red and white mech was but a smudge of glossy finish under the stars, but Spin Out didn't need to see him to guess the manic grin on that oddly expressive face of his. 

-Mech, that's one way to mess up your gyros!- even as he said it Checkflag could almost feel it, that disorientation, that kick of euphoric hysteria up its processor. Maybe aerial frames got something similar from their stunts. For grounders like them, it was the closest thing to flying in your own body they'd ever feel. 

=Keep it quiet, and come over here. We've got work to do= 

The internal buzz of the comm link rang its serious back-to-business warning. 

=You don't even want to have a look?=

Have a look, ah! No, Spin Out didn't want to 'have a look'. Tracks weren't meant to be looked at, not for mechs like them. What he wanted was to spin his t-cog and try his metal on it, what he wanted was to make his engines roar so loud to draw back the place's security from whatever fake chase they'd been sent into, just so he didn't have to imagine having an audience. Maybe they'd jumped in the race to try and get him too, so he could have someone to eat his rust.

But even without it being a death wish, it wouldn't have been like the real thing. He'd never known how the real thing felt like. And if he couldn't have it, he swore to Primus, nobody else would.

=What's the point?=

-...It was our dream, Spin-

The time it had taken to comm back the other had taken to reach him. His whisper seemed to bounce off his back like a nudge, making him turn.

Checkflag stood behind him, but his head was turned away, optics locked on the spires and turns of that distant strip of silver that used to mean so much, his servo resting on the one raw panel on his otherwise perfect chest.  
The one where...oh. No. No, no, no. He couldn't have that idiot to second guess this. Not now. Not when he was so close.  
Tentatively Spin Out stretched an arm forward, until his own hand rested on the other mech's.

-Well, we know better now, don't we?-

That got his attention. Yellow lights snapped away from that mirage, back to what was real. With his matte-gray body Spin Out was but a darker silhouette against the night, but even just that shadow was revealing enough. He'd guessed it anywhere, that ungainly patchwork of illegal upgrades, that crisscross of scars and marks of rushed, clandestine surgeries; all the signs of his friend's lost struggle to try and stay competitive. Stay in the game.

Because it wasn't a game for them. It was their life. They'd been blessed by Primus with a frame, with a gift, and this fragged up system was denying them their right to be what they were meant to be.

He felt bitterness tugging at the corners of his mouth, a crooked grin flashing for a moment as he moved his hand.

The panel slid open, basking their frames in the sinister purple glow of raw nucleon.

Yes. They knew better. Soon the rest of the world would know, too. 

=Let's do this=

 

*************

 

-I'm reporting!-

-Don't!-

-They might send in someone to help!-

They were shouting now. Because it didn't matter anymore. They'd outrun them, of course they had. But nothing like a solid dead end and a force-field buzzing to life behind your back to remind you that speed wasn't all that mattered in a chase.

-No, they won't!-

Spin Out grabbed the other racecar firmly by the shoulders, those oversized turbines of his fanning out hot hair on his faceplate, optics overcharged with fear and that stupid mouth gaping in confusion. 

Oh, Primus, did he really have to explain this?

-Checkflag. The moment they'll know security got us cornered they'll blow up the charges. They'd happily sacrifice us to see this place go up in flames -

The other's servo was on his chest again. On the hatch, still housing the last micro-bomb they hadn't had time to place. 

-...I'm okay with that. Actually, think am going to ask them to do it.-

-Check!- he tried to give the idiot a good shake, but the other lunged forward, its helm-fin smacking what was left of his own. 

-You prefer being captured ? Want a trip to the Institute so those freaks can take out our brain modules, find out what this whole thing was about and then toss 'em in the trash? Or...or worse.-

The dark car felt his fingers slip off the other's arms, servos hanging loosely at his sides as realization hit. 

-...do it. Quick, before they're on us!- 

The silence fell so heavy as he commed, Spin Out could swear he'd heard the bips of the other mechs' inner system check reports.

So this was it. It was probably a good thing it would have been over before he'd have time to really think about it. Spin Out had half a feeling he'd been very very angry about stuff otherwise. Something about stupid ways to go. Petty reasons. 

-Checkflag?-

-Mhn?-

-Do you really think things are going to change?-

-Things will change.-

-Too bad they didn't change for us, uh?-

His voicebox must have been acting up, because that turned out sounding really, really pathetic. So pathetic indeed, he felt the huff of his friend's fans close again and his arms circling his battered patchwork frame.

-That never mattered, Spin-

...son of a glitch. 

-Checkflag?-

-What?-

What, indeed? What do you say to your stupid, idealistic, suicidal friend before you both blow up for a cause half of the presents didn't believe in?

-I think you got the wrong badge-

The checkered bot was smiling again, that bitter, crooked thing.

-I took the one that came with the supply of high power explosive-

Checkflag could have sworn he'd heard his friend laugh, but maybe it had been just a glitch of his audials as the explosion tore his chest open and ripped his head off.

 

*************

 

-Look at that!-

-Decepticons!-

-I can't believe it!-

-A whole sector of the Ibex Arena!-

-Zeta Prime suspended all events until new order, apparently.-

-What?!-

-Well it could have been a massacre on race night!-

-That means the races are over?-

-Thanks, Decepticons!-

-We don't know if it was them!-

-I heard it was racers...-

-Who?-

There was silence suddenly, all the optics pointing to the one bot who'd dropped the juiciest bit of gossip. Everyone was eager to know if one of the big names, one of the stars had indeed took side with the famous (or infamous, depending who you asked) faction. 

-Racers...I don't know. Two nobodies...-

The little crowd waved, disappointed, mechs turning away from the screen still flashing the news, the group disbanding as everyone went back on his way. One last voice rose, an irritated cry among the newfound general indifference. 

-Losers! Ruining the game for everyone else!-

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, so criticism and help are welcome!


End file.
